


Extenuating circumstances

by ChloShow



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Attempted Sexual Assault, Diary/Journal, Drug Use, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7120948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>March's booze-filled days have come to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Friday, December 1 st, 1978**

My official charge was public intoxication, which is a fancy phrase for “passed out on the roller rink at your daughter’s 14th birthday party.”

I don’t have much to say other than I’m glad they didn’t find the ounce of coke in my car.

I’ve gotta do this AA thing for 2 months, and they’ve got me writing to myself to “track the thoughts, places, and people that lead to my drinking.” Their words, not mine. I know why I drink. Frankly it's the only way to bear the emptiness of everyday life and pretend everything's fine. Plus I've had a nightcap before bed everyday since I was 25. How else do they expect me to go to sleep?

Holly’s not talking to me. She’s ashamed of me, which, I get it, but it doesn’t make it hurt less. That’s an asshole thing to say. I ruined her day. She has the right to be hurt, not me.

God, I could use a drink.

 

**Friday, December 8 th, 1978**

On a case with Healy tracking a stalker. The long hours sitting in the car with him really tries my patience especially when he has no idea how to talk about sensitive topics. “How’s AA going?” is not the proper way to start off the workday.

My sponsor says I have to write in this thing more than once a week. What do they expect? Monday: Slept until 2PM. Tuesday: Don’t remember. Wednesday: Want to drink. Thursday: It’s almost the weekend. Sure could use a drink. Friday: Great, time to go to another pointless meeting.

Can’t I just be a high-functioning alcoholic like every other fucking guy I know? How does anyone else get through the day sober?

 

**Sunday, December 10 th, 1978**

I’m a big massive fuckup who will never be happy and doesn’t deserve to be happy.

 

**Tuesday, December 12 th, 1978**

This weekend was bad. We followed the stalker into a club. Had a few drinks. Jackson got stabbed because of me. Guy had some friends and the bouncer interfered before it got too hairy but there was nothing I could do to stop it because I was too fucking drunk.

It’s been maybe 12 hours since my last drink, and I’m starting to get shakey and feel really weird. Called Jackson. He said go to the hospital. I can’t drive right now. Holly’s at school. I don’t know.

 

**Friday, December 15 th, 1978**

Couldn’t go to meeting this week. Just got back from hospital. Jackson drove me and looked after Holly. She’s being really nice but like the kind of nice people do when you’re dying or have a metal rod sticking out of your head.

Jackson and Holly worked a case without me. It was an easy one. Lady thought her grandson was stealing from her, and turned out her dog eats the money she keeps under her mattress. Told Jackson not to let her join him on cases anymore if I’m not there.

Haven’t really slept in a while but I don’t think I can.

 

**Sunday, December 17 th, 1978**

Slept maybe 6 hours the past two days. Trying to work but I doze off in the car. Jackson’s over a lot. When did that happen? He and Holly play checkers or chess or that Pong game. I just smoke and wander around the house. Need to call construction guys about the house for Christmas present. That would begin to make everything up to Holly I think.

 

**Wednesday, December 20 th, 1978**

Been getting 4 hours of sleep at night then napping a lot. Lots of business. The holidays are always great for PI work. Guess the cheer really gets people’s criminal juices flowing.

Finally got to call construction guys about house. Gonna start building after New Years. Should I get Jackson a present? What does he even like? Guns? Leather? He needs a new pair of shoes that’s for sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't find the name of Holland's wife, so for now, I'm calling her Emma.

**Friday, December 22 nd, 1978**

Haven’t made it past step 2 yet. Everyone wants me to talk, and I think I’m the only one here that doesn’t believe in God? Need to come up with something for next week to share.

Is it illegal to bullshit your way through AA?

Oh, found an envelope in the trash addressed from the in-laws. Holly must’ve tried to hide their Christmas card from me, which I appreciate.

 

**Tuesday, December 26 th, 1978**

Holly won’t shut up about the new house, so I know I did the right thing. She got me this blue tie. I can’t describe it, but it definitely looks like a woman picked it out.

Jackson likes the shoes I got him. He was definitely surprised and embarrassed that he didn’t get me anything, but I told him it was fine. He bought Holly some cassettes for her new boom box.

Weird to think we might be moving into a new house by mid-June.

 

**Friday, December 29 th, 1978**

Why!!!!! Do we have to talk about our problems!!! I started off with how I like drinking because it makes me feel loose and relaxed, and that turned into me crying like a fucking idiot in front of 11 other guys about Emma. God I want to forget about the meeting and this year and last year and go to sleep forever.

I completed step 2 though, and I don’t know if what I said counts. Like I’m not gonna fucking repeat some shit about God being in charge, but I do think with how many times I’ve almost died in the past 6 months alone, someone must be looking out for my dumb ass. And the only guardian angel who’d choose to protect me is Emma.

 

**Monday, January 1 st, 1979**

I’ve always loved New Years, but this has probably been the worst one on record.

First, I couldn’t go out to any parties because I couldn’t trust myself not to drink. And then at midnight I wanted some champagne so bad I nearly drove to a liquor store, but Holly hid my keys.

And Jesus Christ, speaking of Holly, that kid not only invited Jackson over to our house to celebrate but also asked me _in front of him_ if he could live with us in our new house. Then he said she might not understand why that can’t happen but she will someday. And goddammit, the precocious little shit said, “No one will think you’re gay. My friend Dorothy’s mom lives with a roommate.” Yes, because Dorothy’s mom is a lesbian!

I love her, but I am so glad she goes back to school in a week.

 

**Wednesday, January 3 rd, 1979**

Looking through the rest of this list, and it’s so God-heavy but I think I can get to step 8 by Friday if I just skip over that stuff. Found out another guy in the group isn’t a Christian, so that’s good. Wanted to ask him to hang out, but we can’t go for drinks so what do we do?

It’s been hard not just to avoid drinking but also not going to bars. Yeah I’ll go in to question a bartender, but I can’t go to a bar to meet women or anything. Where else do you meet women! Church? The supermarket? I haven’t had sex in like 6 months. I sound like such a loser, writing in my diary about how much sex I’m not having.

 

**Friday, January 5 th, 1979**

People to apologize to:

  1. Holly
  2. Jackson
  3. Perry
  4. Fredrickson
  5. Emma + her parents




	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday, January 6 th, 1979**

  1. Holly
  2. Jackson
  3. ~~Perry~~
  4. ~~Fredrickson~~
  5. Emma + her parents



Got the easy ones out of the way. Told Perry I was sorry for him having to represent me in court so much (even though it’s great for him because he gets paid for it). Asked Fredrickson to forgive me for heavily suggesting I may have wanted to screw his wife and also for being a general asshole of a friend and for avoiding him because I didn’t know how to tell him I wasn’t drinking anymore.

Going to ask Holly tomorrow because she has school on Monday, and I want to get it over with before she goes back. Healy hasn’t been around much. Wait, he hasn’t been around at all. Not looking forward to that.

 

**Sunday, January 7 th, 1979**

  1. ~~Holly~~
  2. Jackson
  3. ~~Perry~~
  4. ~~Fredrickson~~
  5. Emma + her parents



I asked her to forgive me for being a bad father and for making her drive me when I was drunk and for dealing with me drinking nonstop and for not being strong enough after mom died. She hugged me and told me she was happy to have me as a dad. I don’t think I deserve that, but what are ya gonna do…

 

**Wednesday, January 10 th, 1979**

Last night me and Jackson were sitting outside this lady’s house in my car because she was convinced her horoscope told her that someone would murder her. I eventually brought up the whole AA thing, and I asked him to forgive me for enabling his drinking and being a clumsy, inefficient detective and getting him stabbed. Mr. Long-winded Anecdote just said thanks, and when I told him he was a great friend and he could come over any time, he just said thanks again. Something’s fucky with him and I can’t tell what it is.

  1. ~~Holly~~
  2. ~~Jackson~~
  3. ~~Perry~~
  4. ~~Fredrickson~~
  5. Emma + her parents



 

**Friday, January 12 th, 1979**

I know I’ve been putting off calling Emma’s parents. I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s like 6AM over there right now.

 

**Saturday, January 13 th, 1979**

Woke up too late. They’re probably having dinner right now. I don’t want to ruin their evening.

 

**Sunday, January 14 th, 1979**

Sunday’s the day of rest right? Tomorrow I’ll call them for sure.

 

**Monday, January 15 th, 1979**

Holly apparently knows about my list, so she woke me up this morning before she went to school to make sure to call them. I did and it was just as awful as I thought it would be. I apologized for my drinking, and then they tried to keep talking after that about my life and shit. I don’t want to talk about my life! I want to pretend it’s not happening!

  1. ~~Holly~~
  2. ~~Jackson~~
  3. ~~Perry~~
  4. ~~Fredrickson~~
  5. Emma ~~\+ her parents~~



 

**Tuesday, January 16 th, 1979**

So a guy at school tried to grope Holly, and she decked him in the nose. Guy looked like a red water fountain she said. I had to go up to the counselor’s office, and they said if she issued a written apology then she would just have to go to detention this Friday.

I told her what she did was the right thing to do, and she asked why she should apologize if what she did was right. I said sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do, and that’s what adult life is. Of course she refused to apologize and is now suspended for the rest of the school week.

I didn’t think she could be any more like her mom.

 

**Wednesday, January 17 th, 1979**

We went to Emma’s grave today. Holly asked to go, which is suspiciously convenient. I need to make sure this thing is hidden better.

Talked to her for a little while. I didn’t think I could talk so long without anyone there, or maybe she was there. I could almost hear her telling me I complain too much.

 

**Thursday, January 18 th, 1979**

Jackson took Holly out for ice cream after she beat up that kid. He even asked for his home address, but I told him he can’t beat up a 14 year old even if he’s a dick.

Because she’s a delinquent now, Holly got to go on a case with us today. The old women love her and are willing to pay more if she’s with us. I think her getting suspended is probably the best thing that’s happened to the Nice Guys Detective Agency.

 

**Friday, January 19 th, 1979**

Only one more meeting, and I’m done!!

 

**Wednesday, January 24 th, 1979**

Can’t believe I’ve been sober for more than a month.

 

**Friday, January 26 th, 1979**

DONE. I guess this is it. No more talking to myself.

 

**Thursday, February 8 th, 1979**

I guess I’m not done talking to myself.

Found out people have been paying Holly to beat up their bullies. She’s been coming home with bruises, and the counselor wants to know who “Mr. Healy” is and they’re wanting him to come down to the school? What the fuck!

 

**Friday, February 9 th, 1979**

What a cluster fuck.

***

The two of them sat next to each other like guilty parents, waiting to hear from the Stanford-educated counselor man. The counselor, Mr. Winkler, kept looking at Healy to remind himself that he wasn’t just some violent manifestation of Holly’s imagination.

“So, he is your daughter’s _friend_?”

He wouldn’t address Healy directly, instead deciding to refer to him as if he weren’t actually in the room at all. This went over as well as it sounded.

“He’s not Holly’s friend. Well, he is, but he’s also my business partner. We work together, so she sees him a lot,” March scratched his nose and grasped the angular wood arms of his uncomfortable office chair for dear life.

“Uh- _huh_ , so what is it that you two actually _do_ again?” The snobby contempt in the guy’s voice grated against Healy in the worst way, but he supposed it was sort of his fault he was here in the first place.

March jumped to end the conversation quickly, “We’re detectives. Work gets a little rough sometimes, and that’s probably why Holly thinks what she’s doing is a good idea. And it’s not! I would _never_ encourage this behavior.”

“Mr. March,” Winkler preached, “Your daughter is facing _expulsion._ Now I don’t know if Holly has a female influence at home,” again, he eyed Healy, the middle-aged elephant in the room, “But by the looks of it, she’s in desperate need of one. You say you’re divorced?”

“Ah, no, Holly’s mom died about two years ago.” And their wedding anniversary was next Thursday. March glanced at the family pictures on the counselor’s bookshelves, feeling sorry for what this wet asshole’s wife and kids had to endure on a daily basis.

“I see,” This revelation added an exciting new layer of disdain to Winkler’s delivery, “For the good of your daughter then, I recommend you get remarried as soon as possible.”

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter for which the "attempted sexual assault" tag refers to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday, February 10 th, 1979**

Told Holly she can’t go on cases with us anymore, and on top of that, Healy told her he’s not gonna visit until her behavior shapes up. Feels like we’re being too harsh on her.

***

March waited in the adjacent room as Healy explained the situation to Holly. Nobody wanted to be there.

“Listen, Holly,” he’d never felt more like her parent before, which made the following punishment all the more difficult to administer, “ _I_ know what you were doing was noble, but they don’t see it that way. They’ll think you’re—,” what was the word his probation officer used, “—troubled. And they’ll think your dad’s not doing a good enough job, and then they’ll take you away from us.”

“I understand,” Holly dipped her head and wiped some moisture from her eyes, trying not to cry.

“That’s why I can’t see you for a little while. The school doesn’t like me. They’ve probably looked up my criminal record by now,” he winced at the realization.

She nodded several times more than necessary to convince him she was alright, forgoing a hug to stop herself from breaking down completely and heading toward the exit.

“Holly?” He tried to think of a comforting goodbye before she left the room and settled on something between innocuous and sentimental, “I’ll see you later.”

The old doorframe rattled as she stepped into the hall, lingering out of sight to eavesdrop on her father’s conversation above the din of the club below.

Healy watched March dawdle by the window that was still tinted blue from the paint bomb a couple years back, “I’m sorry for encouraging her. Being around you guys made me forget what kind of guy I was.”

This moment of self-deprecation shook March from his thoughts, “Please. You’re the least of our problems. Don’t sell yourself short.” He smiled with a sad gleam in his eye, hands in his pockets.

“March, you welcomed me into your home, and I appreciate that. But you don’t know me,” he checked his calendar’s word of the day to distract himself.

Incongruous:  something that does not fit properly or well.

‘ _Jackson found that a family was incongruous with his lifestyle.’_

*** 

**Monday, February 19 th, 1979**

Realized I’ve been sober two months.

If it weren’t for Holly, I’d probably be blacked out right now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Monday, April 2 nd, 1979**

Thought I’ve been hiding how much weed I smoke. The rental agreement says I can’t smoke inside, so I’ve only been smoking in the backyard at night. Holly still found out, and I quote, “Every time you walk into the house, I feel like I’m at a Grateful Dead concert.” I asked her how she knows what that’s like, and she rolled her eyes at me.

I need to cut back once the new house is finished. Probably for the best because Healy and a couple of clients have commented on how my clothes smell.

**Thursday, May 31 st, 1979**

It’s Frederickson’s birthday. Gonna go smoke it up and celebrate our receding hairlines and declining sex drives.

 

**Friday, June 1 st, 1979**

That was a bad idea.

We started off just smoking and that turned into a couple shots and _that_ turned into snorting something in the bathroom of a club. I don’t remember much except Fredrickson saying, “You should have some fun for once!” Then I woke up at the bottom of the swimming pool.

I’m pissed at how easy it was for me to throw away almost 6 month of sobriety, especially when Fredrickson _knows_ I don’t drink.

The new house will be finished next Friday, and Holly wants to have a bunch of friends over for some sort of house warming party once school ends for the summer. The house is our chance to start over, turn the page, clean the slate if-you-will.

She doesn’t know what I did last night, and I’m going to keep it that way.

 

**Monday, June 11 th, 1979**

I understand why she did what she did. Like she got straight As and didn’t get in trouble the entire rest of the semester, but that doesn’t give her the permission to invite Healy to her housewarming party/sleepover without asking me!

On a side note, I can’t believe I’m such a shitty friend.

***

The dozen teenaged girls Holly invited lay sprawled across the living room in front of the TV, laughing at Rizzo’s musical Sandra Dee impersonation. Several of the girls’ moms had dropped off their children to make sure Holly’s dad wasn’t a creep, and many delayed their departure after learning Mr. March was a lonely, single father with a charm that made up for his poor facial hair.

Holly checked the door every so often from her position on the couch, wondering when or if Healy accepted the invitation to see their new house. They hadn’t built a room for him liked she’d wanted, but now that she was on the up-and-up at school, there should be no reason for him _not_ to visit. The party had started at 7PM, and the clock told her nearly two hours had passed since then. Logic told her he wasn’t coming. Hope said he’d regret letting her down.

March stood in the kitchen eating party snacks and following the movie he’d ordered on HBO for the kids when he heard a knock at the door. Holly’s head popped up amidst the sea of patterned pajamas and rushed to the foyer before March had the opportunity to check the peephole. The shock on March’s face was just as pronounced as the satisfaction on Holly’s at the sight of their last guest.

“Sorry I’m late. I wasn’t sure if I needed to bring a gift,” Healy lifted up a box wrapped in brown postal paper. Holly went straight in for a hug, and Healy handed the package to March for safekeeping.

“I knew you’d come!” Holly pulled her friend into the house, “You missed all the adults though. A lot of my friends’ moms were very interested in dad.”

“Were they now?”

March laughed this off uncomfortably, “Thank you, Holly, but I think you’re missing your movie.”

“But I didn’t get to show Mr. Healy the house!”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’s not that big. He can probably see everything—“ He trailed off as he saw the look on his daughter’s face that meant she was going to have her way.

**

“And this is mom and dad’s—I mean dad’s room,” Holly opened the door with the extravagance of a magician revealing her final trick.

March quickly shut the door before anyone could get a good look at his dirty laundry and other unmentionables, “I’m sure Mr. Healy appreciates the tour, but you better get back to your friends. I think that Grease Lightning song you like is coming on.”

“He hasn’t seen the backyard!” she frowned at her dad spoiling her moment.

Healy quickly stepped in, “Don’t worry, Holly. Your dad can show me the rest of the house. Thank you for inviting me,” he smiled at Holly as she gracefully accepted defeat and returned to the living room.

“You want a drink?” March cringed at his own choice of words, “I mean something to put those glasses you bought us to good use. Not alcohol or anything.”

“I should be getting back soon,” Healy didn’t usually go to sleep until 11, but March didn’t need to know that.

This time March protested, “Come on, don’t leave me hanging here, man. All I’m gonna do for the rest of the night is watch this stupid movie and fill up on Pringles.”

Now he understood where Holly’s penchant for persuasion came from, “Got any Yoo-Hoos?”

**

The two men leaned up against the white paneling, staring out into the dark backyard and light-polluted sky. Both were out of practice starting small talk, so they downed the chocolate drink, waiting for the other to break the expectant silence.

“So,” Healy began, “This is what the house looked like before, you know…”

“The fire? Yeah, almost,” March finished his drink and set the bottle in the grass, “We don’t know what to hang on the walls because we lost almost everything. Most of the pictures, I mean.”

“It’s nice. Very home-y.”

“Holly seems to like it,” March ran his fingers over the smooth, painted wood behind him.

Healy noticed his partner was uneasy, dodging something, “What about you?”

“It’s not the same,” he told the truth. He wanted to believe living here would make him feel whole again, but now he knew that wasn’t the case, “I miss her.”

March didn’t know what possessed him to mention Emma. However, now that the topic was out in the open, there was no avoiding the intimacy that came with discussing the past.

“Your wife?”

“Emma, yeah.” Had he ever really talked to anyone about her since the accident? Wow, this was a mistake, “Um, I’ve got some weed inside. Would you want to…”

“No,” Healy stiffly refused, “I don’t smoke, remember?”

Stupid, he was so, so, so stupid, “Shit, yeah, I forgot. Sorry.”

“Anyway, I should get going,” Healy shuffled toward the backdoor, “Gotta follow a couple leads tomorrow for that ghost murderer case, and I want to start early.”

March knew this was a lie. Healy woke up at the same time every day, regimented like a goddamn soldier. He just needed an excuse to leave, and he wasn’t going to deny his friend the right to exit an uncomfortable situation, “Yeah, we can’t leave Mz. Riefenstahl alone without any answers for too long, or she might break another hip. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“See you tomorrow,” Healy shot him a half-smile, and something in March’s chest flipped.

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Sunday, June 17, 1979**

Holly came home with her hair cut and bleached “like Blondie.” I’m not mad, but I’m just now realizing Holly isn’t 10 years old anymore.

They say teenagers are a handful to raise, and I’m starting to believe it. Not that I was anything but a piece of shit to deal with at 14. I just expected—

I don’t know what I expected. She’s my daughter after all.

On the upside, all the guys are afraid of her.

 

**Wednesday, June 20 th, 1979**

I keep waking up expecting Emma to be beside me. This has been happening since we moved in, and I can’t exactly ask anyone what to do about it. Sometimes I can almost hear her sigh.

Then there’s the furnace. I check the damn thing maybe 5 times a day to make sure it’s not leaking. Holly’s caught me fiddling with it and told me she’d mention if the place smelled like gas.

 

**Thursday, June 28 th, 1979**

Holly told me she flushed my weed down the toilet. I don’t believe her; she has friends who smoke, so she probably turned it for profit.

She thinks she knows everything, and that might be the case but that doesn’t give her the right to get rid of my drugs! How am I going to sleep now? Did she think about _that_?

 

**Wednesday, July 4 th, 1979**

I’m going to regret everything I do today, but it’s the Fourth of fucking July. Give me a break.

***

He sat at the bar, eight drinks deep and completely miserable. There was no more room in his life for recklessness without feeling like a total fuckup. So there he was, face in his glass, zoning out into the amber liquid remaining at the bottom. Some annoying Rod Stewart song blasting from the jukebox displaced all this thoughts for the moment.

“Dude, are you okay?” The bartender dropped by to check on the guy who seemed several notches less cheery than every other customer in the establishment.

March lifted himself up with great effort, “Where’s your telephone?”

**

Healy hauled March into the passenger seat of his car, while his friend bombarded him with apologies.

“I’m so sorry. I ruined the fireworks with my failure.”

“I wasn’t watching any fireworks, March,” he watched his passenger struggle to get into a comfortable sitting position, “And it’s not failure. Everyone has the potential to relapse. We’ll get you home and—.”

“NO!” March burst, “Holly can’t know. She can’t see me like this.”

“You left your daughter alone at home on Independence Day?”

March huffed with indignation, “She’s at a friend’s house. I’m not _that_ bad a parent.”

At a loss for a response, Healy turned the keys in the ignition, signaling an end to their conversation when March panicked.

“Wait!” he pleaded, “Take me to your place. Please. Just for tonight. I can sleep on the couch.”

If Healy were a different man, he’d ignore March’s drunken request, take him home, and spend the rest of the night watching TV by himself. But he was a lonely man, and the idea of not having to spend the night alone in his apartment was too tempting to pass up.

“Fine.”

**

Was it intrusive to watch another man sleep? Healy felt on some level the act was voyeuristic, but that didn’t stop him from studying March’s body from across the room. He slept restlessly, twitching and snoring like a cat with inner ear problems, and Healy couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to lay next to him. He’d place his arm around March’s back to ease the tension from his shoulders, reassuring him that he didn’t have to be alone.

His marriage had been just like his parents’: nonexistent. Neither talked to each other about anything more substantive than the day’s events. They ate dinner together, shared a room, and sometimes tried for a baby that neither really wanted.

Initially, June had been attracted to his quiet, emotionally unavailable schtick, and the same qualities drove her away. Healy had married because that’s what a guy did, but she was unable to provide him with the comfort and partnership he craved.

Staying at March’s house while he had been in the early stages of sobriety felt so _easy_. He’d never lived with anyone who’d actually _wanted_ to spend time with him, but when Holly badgered him to hang out and March goaded him to stay for dinner, he finally understood family.

One unremarkable day, March told a joke and smiled his shit-eating, self-satisfied smile, knowing he’d made Healy’s day, and that’s the moment Healy knew he was in love, or rather, in trouble.

He knew from March’s reaction on New Years that he had no desire to live with him, and then followed the incident with Holly that confirmed what he'd felt in his gut. He was a bad influence who frankly didn't deserve all the love this family had to give; thus, he’d retreated each time March tried to stake a larger claim in his life.

Somehow the guy managed to slip past his defenses because he’d wound up passed out on his couch, and Healy couldn’t imagine any other place he’d rather be than next to him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thursday, July 5 th, 1979***

Gotta make this up to Jackson somehow. I’ve been a real shitty friend through and through. Now that I think about it, I really should’ve officially invited him to see the house. That’s what normal, responsible adults do I think. Or that’s what Emma would’ve done.

*Remember last night and how horrible it was so that you’ll never ever drink again.

 

**Friday, July 6 th, 1979**

Dinner will have to wait. There’s been an unexpected break in the ghost murderer case. Mz. Riefenstahl has unfortunately passed away, and everyone thinks it was from natural causes. The coroner won’t do a thorough autopsy because the whole thing about a ghost murdering someone is ridiculous, but there’s a hefty sum of money allocated in her will for anyone who can prove she was murdered.

***

[The following is an official transcription from the Los Angeles Police Department.]

 **INTERROGATOR** : ‘… _but there’s a hefty sum of money allocated in her will for anyone who can prove she was murdered._ ’ These are your words, Mr. March.

 **MARCH** : I’m telling you; I’m a PI. You know what we’re like. We’re desperate for money, but we wouldn’t go around killing little old ladies!

 **INTERROGATOR** : July 4th, the night of Cynthia Riefenstahl’s death. ‘ _I’m going to regret everything I do today, but it’s the Fourth of fucking July. Give me a break._ ’

 **MARCH** : You’re taking it out of context.

 **INTERROGATOR** : Who’s to say you didn’t take up this old woman’s case, feed into her paranoia—enough to add an amendment to her will—kill her, and then frame some poor sap for the crime!

 **MARCH** : I have an alibi! I was at a friend’s place the night in question.

 **INTERROGATOR** : And this friend just so happens to be your business partner, Mr. Jackson Healy?

 **MARCH** : Yes!

 **INTERROGATOR** : And who’s to say you and Mr. Healy don’t have a deal to split the money right down the middle if he keeps his mouth shut, huh? I bet if we bring Mr. Healy down here, he’ll start singing like a canary in a mineshaft.

 **MARCH** : No, no, no. Keep him out of this. He didn’t do anything.

 **INTERROGATOR:** That seems very unlikely. July 5 th, the morning of Cynthia Riefenstahl’s death, ‘ _Gotta make this up to Jackson somehow_.’

 **MARCH** : That really isn’t what it sounds like.

**

Perry stopped the tape, “Do you want me to keep going? I mean, it just gets better for them the more you talk. Why didn’t you call me immediately?” He fumed at his loquacious, misguided client.

“I don’t know. They just kept asking me more questions and leading me back in,” March knocked his head against the room’s gray cement wall, “Perry, I have to admit something.”

“You didn’t do it didya?”

“No!” March rolled his eyes, “Nothing like that. I was just—you know how I told you a couple months back that I was getting sober? Well,” he sat back down to deliver the disappointing news, “That night, the night of the murder, I was at a bar. O’Malley’s I think? And I was getting wasted when I called Healy to pick me up, and I crashed on his couch. Full story.”

His lawyer blew out steam from his ruddy face, “You know what they’re gonna say.”

March slid down into his chair, “I know.”

“Recovering alcoholic abandons daughter, gets blackout drunk, and murders old woman for money,” Perry laughed hopelessly, “It might actually have been easier if you _did_ kill the broad.”

**

Jessica waved her flashlight around the dark house, “What are we even looking for?”

“Shhh, be quiet” Holly hissed, reminding Jessica to use her breaking-into-a-crime-scene voice, “Mr. Healy told me that the lady reported having her garden dug up and her house ransacked, so someone was looking for something…”

“That’s really vague. What are we supposed to do with that information?” Jessica followed her friend around the small house, startling herself momentarily with her reflection in the mirror.

Holly peeked into the dead woman’s knick-knacks, lifting up nesting dolls and figurines, “My dad and Mr. Healy are in jail. If you have any better ideas, I’m all ears.”

“What else did Mr. Healy say?” Jessica wandered into the kitchen and gawked at the trashcan overflowing with uneaten desserts, “Ew, aren’t the cops supposed to clean the house when a person dies?”

“I think the relatives are supposed to do that,” Holly surveyed the trash, “Makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?”

Mounds of ruined cookies and pies lay decomposing in the garbage, “Mr. Healy said that she kept going on and on about how something was happening to her pastries, “ Holly lit up the corner of the countertop that housed the flour and sugar, “She also said she was convinced she was being haunted because the animals kept acting strangely…birds flying into windows. Alfred Hitchcock stuff.”

Examining the glass dispensers full of bakery ingredients, Holly opened the jar labeled ‘flour,’ dipped her finger in, and tasted the white powder, “That’s not flour…”


	8. Chapter 8

“We’ve got to get this to my dad’s lawyer. He’ll know what to do with it,” Holly searched for a bag to hold the jar full of cocaine, but before she could warn Jessica about fingerprints, her friend had scooped up the container in her arms.

As Holly poised to reprimand Jessica, an unfamiliar voice called out behind the girls, “I see you’ve found what I’ve been looking for.” The voice belonged to a jumpy man in a suit who Holly recognized as one of the people in photographs from around the house, “Just give that to me, and I promise no one will get hurt,” he tried to coax the jar from Jessica, but Holly held out her arm to stop her friend.

“We know what you did, and the cops are on their way,” she bluffed, stalling for time and half-hoping the man was paranoid enough to believe her.

“You called the—“ Holly elbowed Jessica in the ribs before she could finish her question, but this didn’t fool the man who had just begun to advance upon them.

Fearing for her life, Jessica pushed the container out of her hands, white powder spilling all over the linoleum floor as the man dove forward in vain to salvage the drugs.

“Don’t you know how much this shit is worth!”

Jessica shrugged, “What do you mean? It’s just flour,” Holly pulled her toward the garden door where they’d entered.

“Flour?” The man was livid, “This was fucking premium coke worth more than your _life_ , kid, and now you’re gonna pay for sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

The two teens backed up, feeling behind them for any sort of object they could use for defense. Holly closed her hand around a porcelain cat, and when the man lunged, she bashed the fat, white animal over his head.

“Run!” She signaled to Jessica, but as the girls made their escape, red and blue lights accompanied by wailing sirens barred their way.

**

The television camera centered on Holly, placing much less focus on the worn out Jessica.

“Why not just let the police handle the case?”

The reporter held a microphone a couple inches from Holly’s face to let her answer the prompted question, “They were too focused on my dad as a suspect to consider the possibilities at hand.”

“And what made you believe you could solve the case all by yourself?”

She composed herself well in front of a camera crew despite the day’s events, “I had help,” Holly glanced over to Mr. Healy and her dad a few feet away in front of another camera crew, “The Nice Guys Detective Agency provided me with the facts, and I just connected the dots.”

After a shot of Mz. Riefenstahl’s house, the camera found its way to March and Healy. A different reporter drilled them with questions, “So you’re Holly’s father?”

March nodded with pride, “Sure am.”

The woman turned to Healy, “And you two are brothers who run a detective agency?”

“Ah,” March cut in as he saw Healy’s brow furrow, “No, we’re—he’s—Jackson is—“

“Holly called you her ‘friend,’” the reporter continued over March’s floundering, “How can a grown man be friends with a teenage girl?”

Unlike March, Healy was unfazed by the prospect of appearing on television and found himself eloquently diverting the path the reporter was traveling down, “Friends and family are almost interchangeable terms. I’m Holland’s brother-in-law, so Holly sees me as the fun uncle, or at least more fun than her dad.”

Healy faked a good-natured chuckle, and March followed along patting his friend’s back in a show of familial familiarity, equal parts bewildered and amused, “Ah, yes, good ol’ Uncle Healy.”

***

**Thursday, July 12 th, 1979**

Finally got this thing back from out of evidence. I owe Holly big time, and I gotta explain to Emma’s parents they have a new son-in-law. That’ll be fun.


	9. Chapter 9

 

After the media circus died down and Perry squared away all the legal business, they all finally had time to stop and think, which was exactly what March dreaded. 

**

“Hey dad?” Holly piped up from her seat in the passenger side of their car.

March adjusted his sunglasses in the rearview mirror, “What is it, sweetie?”

“I want to give you a chance to be honest,” she watched panic, fear, desperation, and regret pass over her dad’s face in a matter of seconds, “What were you doing the night Cynthia Riefenstahl was killed?”

Great, she had him trapped with 5 minutes before they were home. Just enough time to prevent him from stalling but not too much time that he could stop off for a quick errand to avoid answering.

“I was, uh, I’m not gonna lie to you, Holly,” no, he was giving her a half-truth, “I was at Mr. Healy’s apartment that night.”

“What were you doing there? You didn’t have to send me over to Jessica’s if you were just hanging out,” she was bitter. All Jessica’s parents had to eat at their cookout were veggie dogs and tofu burgers, “We could’ve seen a fireworks show together or something.”

“We were doing adult stuff,” what the fuck did that mean? “Like adult guy stuff. Man stuff.”

Holly wrinkled her nose, “Man stuff? Okay, if you don’t want me to know you’re sleeping with Mr. Healy, you should at least come up with a better lie than ‘man stuff.’”

March slammed on his breaks and came to a complete stop in the middle of their street, “I AM NOT—I am _not_ sleeping—where did you—start over. You thought what?”

“You’ve been seeing Mr. Healy,” Holly presented all the evidence to make sure her dad couldn’t maneuver his way out of the truth, “Mr. Healy’s divorced and doesn’t have a girlfriend. You haven’t had a girlfriend since mom died, and you never called any of my friends’ moms after the party. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me since Christmas, but…”

“Holly,” he turned as far as he could in his seat toward his daughter to set her straight, “Mr. Healy and I are not sleeping together. I was drunk on the Fourth of July, and Mr. Healy let me stay at his apartment so I didn’t have to tell you. What made you think…no, you already told me. I don’t need to hear it again.”

“That’s it?” she leaned back in her seat, disappointed that her theory fell through.

“Yeah, that’s it,” March guided the car up their driveway, “Hey, we can’t be right all the time, kiddo. Besides, you caught a murderer this week and saved me from prison. Your track record is pretty spotless if you ask me.”

***

**Friday, July 13 th, 1979**

I told Jackson about Holly’s little “theory,” and I don’t think he thought it was very funny. Maybe the guy has something against gay people, I don’t know. Or maybe he thinks I was coming onto him? Oh god why can’t I just learn to shut up.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Sunday, July 15 th, 1979**

Never noticed how people look at me and Jackson before.

We were getting lunch at this diner, and the waitress smiled at us like she was in on some sort of secret. Then there've been a couple women who've recognized me from the Riefenstahl murder interview. They're all flirty and whatever until they look at Jackson and then there’s something in their eyes that clicks. Almost like that feeling when you’re watching a magic trick and you see the magician hiding the extra coin between his fingers.

I’m too aware of how I’m acting now like when I stand next to him, I notice how close he is or how much I touch him or if I’m smiling too much. I hope he hasn't picked up on what I've noticed the past few days. This is really stupid to say, but I'm afraid if he thinks I'm gay, he'll leave The Nice Guys. 

 

**Tuesday, July 17 th, 1979**

Trying so hard to show Jackson how good a friend he is to me, and he just keeps shutting me out! I asked him to have dinner at our house, and he said he “appreciates the gesture, but you don’t have to apologize for anything.”

What is his fucking problem? I _know_ he doesn’t talk about shit because he’s Irish or whatever other guilt bullshit excuse he has, but that’s not good enough for me. When I was growing up, and one of us had a problem, you complained to everyone, regardless of the consequences.

 

***

An insistent, continuous knocking diverted Healy’s attention from the television to the door. His watch read 10:30PM. Who could possibly be harassing him at this hour?

“Jackson! I know you’re awake.”

Right, it was March.

He opened the door quickly so that March no longer had the opportunity to give him a fucking headache, “What is so important that you had to drive all the way out here to wake up half the block?”

“I can’t sleep,” his friend swept into the room with an air of confusion and determination.

“So you want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“No, shut up,” March couldn’t stand still, searching for cigarettes in his coat pocket and eventually failing, “You need to tell me what your problem is.”

Healy was at a loss for words. From his vantage point, the only problem in his life currently was that March had driven out to his apartment after apparently working himself up about some imagined issue, “Are you high? No, seriously, are you back on coke?”

“No, I’m not fucking high!” March rolled his eyes, rubbing his face with his hands nervously, “I’m just, I don’t fucking know, I had this whole speech planned out in my head, and I knew exactly how it was gonna go.”

“March,” he approached him cautiously, “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what’s bothering you.”

This exacerbated March’s mood, “You can’t do that thing where you try and make me feel better and diffuse the situation and I don’t get to say what I really wanted! But I am going to sit down because I’m very stressed.” He collapsed in a huff onto the couch and rose again, “No, I changed my mind. I need to stand otherwise it takes away from what I’m saying.”

“It would help if I knew what the fuck you wanted to tell me in the first place,” he loved him, but goddammit, March was such an idiot.

“Okay,” March took a deep breath and began his spiel, “We’re friends, and I thought you considered me to be a friend, but when I try to do nice things for you or, god forbid, treat you like family, you just shut me out. What is your problem, man? It’s like you’ve built a fucking Berlin Wall between you and feelings.”

Was that fear he saw in his Healy’s eyes?

“I’m sorry,” he turned his back on March, suddenly cold, “I told you I wasn’t a nice guy.”

This was a bullshit excuse, and he was the king of bullshit excuses. March approached Healy, spun him around, and crowded his space, “If you’re gonna lie, at least do me the favor of lying to my face.”

Healy averted his gaze, dipping his head to avoid making eye contact with March. This prompted him to move in closer, going so far as to take his hand to Healy’s jaw and guide his chin upwards so that he could see what Healy was thinking.

“March,” he was close to begging, “Let this go.”

When he rehearsed his speech in the car on the way over, he’d imagined Healy shouting or throwing a punch or at least reciprocating his confrontational attitude. Instead of aggression, Healy emanated a lonely desperation that threatened to crack March’s tough resolve.

“Just tell me, and get it over with,” his fingers remained on Healy’s chin, softly holding him in place, “If you hate me, I think I have the right to know why.”

How could March think, after all they’d been through together, that he hated him? They’d fought alongside each other, had each other’s back when the other was struggling. Healy was willing to keep March at arm’s length to preserve their partnership, but he couldn’t let his friend think he was avoiding him out of _hatred._ That’s why he chose to lean forward, pressing his lips firmly against March’s mouth, holding onto him tightly to show him how much he was loved.

After a few tense, unresponsive moments, Healy broke away to see March’s eyebrows max out halfway up his forehead. His friend blinked, sputtered, and altogether failed to respond with something comprehensible, “That, um—it’s—I—can’t—it’s late,” he finally managed to say as he retreated backwards toward the door.

Healy repeated the sentiment, fully accepting his friend’s disorientation, “It’s late.”

Nodding vigorously, March agreed with his own thought that yes, indeed it was late, fumbled for the door handle, and disappeared into the smoggy night.

**

“Where were you?” Holly peeped out of her bedroom, “I heard the car leave and didn’t know—“

“Nothing!” March replied, slamming his own bedroom door and subsequently rummaging through his on-suite bathroom for a spare pack of cigarettes.


	11. Chapter 11

**Wednesday, July 18 th, 1979**

I have to write this out, or else I won’t believe it actually happened.

Jackson kissed me.

Jackson Healy, the tough guy for hire who sucker punched me when we first met, kissed me.

Am I like the last fucking person to know he was in love with me? Was there like a meeting? Some sort of press conference? “Hey, residents of Los Angeles, Jackson here’s in love with a clueless schmuck who can’t take a fucking hint!”

***

“Hello, March residence. Holly March speaking,” Holly answered the phone with the poise of a seasoned secretary.

“Holly, it’s me. Is your dad home?”

“Hey, Mr. Healy,” she trailed the phone cord to the kitchen, gathering up supplies to make a sandwich, “Sorry, he’s not home right now. He left this morning. Didn’t tell me where he was going. Do you know what happened to him last night? He seemed really freaked out.”

Healy replayed the kiss over in his head, “I can imagine.”

“Do you want me to call you when he gets back?”

“No, you don’t have to,” he didn’t know why he was calling anyway. A bombshell like that needed a few days, or maybe a few years to settle in.

“Don’t worry. I will. See ya,” she hung the phone back up on the wall before Healy could protest, fully aware that he truly wanted her to call back but was too embarrassed to say so. Her worldview may have been colored by naivety and a glint of optimism (despite her upbringing), but she would never understand why adults weren’t more straightforward.

**

“It’s me again.”

March sat cross-legged in front of Emma’s grave, setting a bouquet of calla lilies on top of the stone marker that read EMMA LOUISE MARCH 1942 – 1976.

“I asked the guy at the flower shop which ones I should get for you,” he tried not to speak down at the grave, directing his comments somewhere in the air in front or above him, “He said these symbolized marriage, and I thought you’d like that. Plus, I know you hate carnations, so…”

He caught himself crying, a few tears leaking down his cheek, “I know. I shouldn’t cry. You’re right like you were right about the gas,” this only made matters worse; a steady stream of tears now poured down his chin onto his lap. He wiped his eyes on his suit sleeve, completely neglecting to bring along a handkerchief.

“I know, I know. Get to the point,” March laughed through his grief at the thought of his wife hassling him, “The fact is I’m so fucking lonely, Emma. I miss you like hell, but there’s someone—don’t worry, it’s not Rachel Clark. She moved to San Francisco after her daughter graduated, and besides, Holly would never approve. _Anyway_ ,” he reoriented himself, “His name is Jackson, and he’s from New York and he gets along with Holly and yeah I’m rambling, but if you really are in Heaven or the Heaven alternative for people who aren’t religious, then you saw what happened last night.”

Running his fingers over the cold, polished granite, he allowed himself to look at the proof that Emma wasn’t with him and would never sleep next to him again.

“I love you,” March addressed his wife, who responded in a voice only he could discern, “And no, he’s not Marlon Brando, but give him a break. God, you should see some of these new actors. There’s this one guy, John Travolta. I tell you, if he were around back in our 20s, I don't know if I would've married you. I'm just kidding! Come on.”

***


	12. Chapter 12

**

The house was quiet except for two girls excitedly discussing the upcoming 9th grade school year over the sounds of a Runaways cassette. The jangle of keys preceded March’s entrance, and as he decompressed from his visit to the cemetery, Holly bounced out of her room, eager to tell her dad the news.

“Dad! Mr. Healy called earlier.”

“Thanks,” he always felt like the world was a treadmill going slightly too fast for him, never giving him the rest he needed, “Who’s in your room?”

Holly blushed, “That’s Claire. She’s the coolest girl at school. “

“I thought you were the coolest girl in school,” March opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Coke, attempting to remove the lid.

“We’re the top two coolest girls in school, so it’s a no brainer that we had to hang out,” Holly watched her dad struggle with the bottle’s lid, “Do you need help with that?”

“Do you know where the bottle opener is?”

“Dad, it’s a twist-top,” she took the Coke, popped the lid off, and returned it to March in one motion.

This wasn’t emasculating in the slightest; March had poor grip strength. Everyone knew this. “Oh, thanks, sweetie.”

“So, aren’t you gonna call Mr. Healy back?”

The soda stuck to March’s throat at the suggestion, causing him to choke for a few moments.

“Put your arms above your head like you told me that one time at the pool,” she raised her arms so that her dad would follow her example.

Pounding on his chest, March cleared his throat and tried speaking again, “Why don’t you go play with your friend, and I’ll worry about Mr. Healy.”

“We’re not _playing_. We’re hanging out! I’m almost 15, not 5,” Holly stepped past her dad to grab two Cokes and left to continue her afternoon recounting her best stories to impress Claire.

March rested against the countertop and weighed the consequences of calling Healy.   
**Con** : Jackson would be able to hang up immediately if the conversation got too thorny.  
**Pro:** Minimal sexual tension and a higher chance they’d get something resolved.  
**Con:** He’d actually have to initiate a telephone call about a potentially friendship-destroying topic.

Oh well.

“Hey, Jackson. Holly told me you called,” he honestly couldn’t believe the call hadn’t gone straight to voice mail.

“Yeah, I wanted to apologize,” he was astonished his partner would contact him so soon, but when he considered the implication, he panicked, assuming March was more than ready to push him away.

“ _I_ should apologize. I know I freaked out yesterday—“

Why was March sorry? He wasn’t the one who broke the boundaries of traditional society. “It’s fine. I expected as much.” And worse. That was the one not-so-shitty part of the last night: it could’ve been much worse.

“Haha, wait, no, I shouldn’t laugh,” he quickly reviewed the situation, “Nothing’s funny. I’m just nervous.”

Healy sighed, “I shouldn’t have…done what I did.” ‘ _Revealed that my devotion to you extends beyond a normal, platonic male relationship._ ’ “I’m sorry, and hopefully we can forget it ever happened.”

“No, that’s why I called,” how should he phrase this? “What happened is not something I can really move past.”

“Fine.” They were going to acknowledge the kiss. He should’ve guessed this was how March would choose to approach the debacle, “I knew it was a mistake, and I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like you stabbed my mother in the back and cooked her in a pie.”

This particularly vivid image rubbed Healy the wrong way, “How else should I sound?

“Healy, I’m not mad at you! You’re overreacting.” Did March really have to start at square one for Healy to understand what he was trying to imply? If subtlety wouldn’t work, he’d have to spell it out in plain English.

“I think I’m reacting in a completely appropriate way if we take into account how you left my apartment looking like I’d jabbed you with a goddamn cattle prod.”

“Yes I was shocked! I thought you hated gay people!” If the moment wasn’t so serious, he’d reflect on how hilariously incorrect he’d been, “Like what the fuck else was I supposed to think! It’s not a given that a New Yorker who smashes people’s faces in for a living will be…open-minded enough to accept that his partner is a fucking dandy.”

“A dandy?” He’d repeated it for clarification and to make sure he’d heard March right.

“It’s British slang,” For once, March was grateful that Emma had not been willing to give up speaking like Mary Poppins, “It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“So an accurate synonym would be…”

“A fairy, yeah.”

“A fag?”

He cringed, “I hate that word but yeah sure why not.”

“So you’re gay?” This day was definitely not going in the direction Healy had predicted. First, some kids at his regular diner recognized him from TV and asked for his autograph on their yellow pages ad. Secondly, Holland March may have just come out to him?

“No, uh, you know what, it would be easier to explain in person. Maybe over dinner?” March bit his lip, thinking over how to phrase his request, “Holly would love to see you, and so would I if that’s not clear enough.”

For once, Healy allowed himself to believe the world wasn’t a soul-crushing dog fight in the basement of a defunct daycare, “Sure, when?”

“Does tomorrow at 6 sound good?”

***


	13. Chapter 13

**Thursday, July 19 th, 1979**

I hope this isn’t a fucking disaster.

***

When March had initially scheduled dinner, he threw out the first available date he could think of. Blinded by nerves, the two men neglected to remember that the weatherman had been reporting a mild tropical storm to roll in Thursday afternoon. So when Healy pulled up to the March household at 6:05PM, the palm trees around the neighborhood had already started to bend under the wind’s strain. The rain soaked through the hem of his jeans walking from his car to the doorway, and only after March admitted him inside did the storm start to empty its contents in thick sheets.

“Eesh, I’m glad you got here in one piece,” March watched his friend shake out his umbrella in the foyer, “Maybe tonight wasn’t the best time for a dinner party…”

“Don’t worry. My place leaks like it survived the Blitzkrieg. It’s probably better I’m here,” Healy smirked and promptly turned red, moving past the small talk and acknowledging the reason he had driven to March’s house during a typhoon in the first place.

**

Because March had no sense of smell and was essentially the world’s worst cook, Holly had the pleasure of choosing what the three of them would be eating that night. She settled on ham and cheese crepes, a twist on the classic grilled cheese; after causing the kitchen to almost permanently smell like charred bread, she’d ordered Chinese food.

Everything had to be perfect! She and Claire had listened to her dad’s conversation with Mr. Healy over the telephone line in her room, so she knew how much depended on the success of the dinner. Unfortunately, opening the windows to air out the house from her cooking disaster wasn’t an option with the storm bearing down on them. Instead she cranked every ceiling fan in the vicinity of the kitchen to the highest setting, which did nothing but spread the smoke smell.

That’s how the trio ended up eating from takeout containers in the living room.

“I’ve got some big news,” Holly chimed in as her dad slurped his noodles nearly straight from his plate and Mr. Healy twirled lo mein around his fork tightly so that it wouldn’t drop on the way from the coffee table to his mouth.

“Wait until your dad’s done eating, you don’t want him to choke,” Healy recommended.

March finished his bite and waited for his daughter to deliver the news.

Holly gathered her courage, preparing herself for all the questions to follow, “I’m dating someone!” She watched her dad lock up, freezing and silently begging Healy to speak for him. Healy shook his head, which forced March to respond.

“That’s great, sweetheart,” he’d never been a good liar. He preferred to lie through omission, “What’s his name?”

“Actually, I’m not dating a guy,” she shifted in her seat. Her dad’s words to Healy about his sexuality had lead her to accept that her feelings for girls were absolutely normal, “You remember Claire? The friend who I had over yesterday? She’s my girlfriend.”

“Oh, thank God!” March dropped his chopsticks and rested his forehead against his fist, “Don’t take this the wrong way, Holly, but I am so _glad_ you’re not dating a guy. Guys are so awful. Especially nowadays,” he patted his daughter on the back, aware of how selfish his response may have come across, “I’m so happy for you Holly. Claire seemed really cool.” Cooler than any girl he dated in high school, but that was beside the point.

“Congratulations,” Healy added to the celebration once it dawned on him that Holly was also seeking _his_ approval, “I’m glad you’re happy. Try not to break her heart.” He gave her a good-natured wink and eventually had to stop March from ranting about how terrible teenage boys were.

***


	14. Chapter 14

**

Dinnertime passed, and the three of them spent the following hours locked in a battle of wits, playing multiple rounds of Clue until the rain dissipated. At 9:37PM, Holly declared herself the winner of their fourth game when March decided no amount of board game humiliation would be able to kill the time necessary for the storm to clear out.

“Colonel Mustard should probably start heading back home if he doesn’t want to drown,” Healy placed his yellow game piece into the cardboard Clue box and stood to leave much to the Marches’ vexation.

“I think you’ll end up shipwrecked with Gilligan and the crew no matter what time you leave, Colonel,” a lightning strike and the grumble of thunder punctuated March’s observation, “We have a perfectly good couch with your name on it in case you change your mind.”

Healy considered March’s proposal. In all honesty, he’d be a fool to drive in this weather. The prospect of spending the night shouldn’t have been so daunting, but the disarming smile that accompanied March’s words left him leaning toward swimming through the streets of LA.

“I’m going to bed. Good night. Thanks for coming over, Mr. Healy,” Holly gave him a quick hug and left the room to put up the game board, fully aware that he and her dad had ‘adult man stuff’ to sort through.

“She couldn’t leave fast enough,” March chuckled, “You don’t need to answer by the way. You can just stay there, and if you’re still here by the time I get back with sheets and blankets, I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You’re such a smart ass,” Healy tried and failed to suppress a grin.

March passed his friend on the way to the linen closet, squeezing his shoulder for emphasis, “That counts as a yes, too.”

**

10:20PM, and they hadn’t heard a single sound from Holly for 10 minutes.

“I think she might be eavesdropping,” March quipped, “She’s never this quiet. I usually have to tell her to get off the phone.”

“What is she listening for?” Healy flipped the channel to an Andy Griffith rerun.

Arms akimbo, March stood to one side of the couch and stared at Holly’s door, willing her to mind her own business, “You know how kids today think with all these television plots running around in their heads. We’re going to have this heart-to-heart, and then everything will be solved.”

“Remember when we were kids, and you didn’t have to solve your problems because there was always the promise of nuclear war looming overhead?”

“Exactly!” March gestured emphatically.

“I remember I wanted to break up with my first girlfriend, but I didn’t have to because her parents moved to the Midwest out of fear that New York would be one of the first cities destroyed by Russia,” Healy’s eyes glazed over as the past played out in front of him.

“I’d say I miss it, but I don’t,” he sipped his glass of soda, “Dad sunk a couple thousand dollars into developing a fallout shelter, gave up, and converted it into a swimming pool.”

“Wow. What changed his mind?”

Images of his dad running across the diving board and launching himself into the pool distracted March momentarily, “He said he’d rather celebrate what few years he had left than spend them preparing for a bleak and desolate future.”

“Your dad sounds very dramatic.” ‘ _My dad just ruined my marriage_ ,’ Healy added in his head, “Is that where you get it from?”

“Yeah, he was a traveling salesman, “March set his drink down on a coaster and nonverbally asked to sit down next to Healy on the couch. At a safe distance away on sheet-covered cushions, he resumed his story, “Didn’t see him a lot as a kid, but when I did, it was like a holiday. We’d all go out to dinner and sit at the soda fountain counter,” His voice faltered, taking on a distant quality, “Then he’d disappear just when I started to feel like we were an actual family. One day we thought he was out of town on a job when mom found him fucking her sister.”

“Jeez, how did she find that out?” Although he hadn’t mean to open up a can of worms, he found it comforting to learn his friend had suffered through similar family drama.

“She ran into him at the motel where she was fucking my English teacher,” March motioned vaguely to himself, delivering a self-aware smirk, “And that’s where I get it from.”

“Wanna know why I hate my father?” Healy almost felt drunk, reckless and entirely prepared to bullshit the night away with March.

“Go ahead. Dazzle me.”

“Well,” how to begin? “ _My_ father was never around, but that’s because he was overseas serving in the military for most of my childhood. When he came back to the states, he settled in California. I decided to pay him a visit, be a good son, et cetera, and my wife, June, tagged along to meet the old man, “ he laughed at March’s expectant face, living for the drama, “The next week, June told me over our anniversary dinner that they were fucking.”

Bursting at the seams with laughter, March rolled across the couch and up onto his feet, clapping for good measure, wholly unable to contain himself, “I love it. You win,” he put on his game show host voice, “ _You win_ the shittiest hand possibly dealt by life itself, Jackson Healy. Congratulations. How do you feel?”

He spoke into the invisible microphone March extended to him, “Like a fucking king.”

The two men devolved into hysterical fits at their miserable lives when Holly emerged from her bedroom wearing her pajamas and pink fuzzy robe, “I know you’re having a lot of fun, but can you please keep it down? You’re almost louder than the storm.”

The scene tickled March further, turning his face an incredible shade of pink, “Sure, sure, sorry sweetheart. I promise we’ll be quiet,” he wiped away his joyful tears with his hand and huffed out a shaky breath in at an attempt to end his revelry, “Shhhhh,” he informed Healy as Holly left. This only inspired more cathartic snorts and squeals from March.

“I think we should call it quits,” Healy regretfully observed, “It’s been fun, but it’s almost 11.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot you’re old. You go to bed early,” he teased, heading toward the kitchen to place his glass in the sink.

“I’m only 3 years older than you, March,” Healy chided, “And if I remember correctly, you were the first one to fall asleep after the ball dropped on New Years.”

**


	15. Chapter 15

Someone was snoring. He knew from June’s frequent complaints that he snored but definitely not that loud. Healy woke up from his spot on the couch to find March out like a light across the room in the recliner.

“March.”

A twitch from the chair was the extent of his response.

“March.” Second time was the charm.

“Hmmhuh? Who’s there?” From zero to 60, March launched himself back into the realm of consciousness, blinking the sleep from his eyes and reaching for where his telephone usually rested on his nightstand if he were to wake up in his bed, not the living room. After regaining his senses, he settled back down, awaiting Healy’s inevitable questions.

“Why are you in here? You afraid I’m gonna rob you?”

March rose and trailed his blanket behind him as he crossed the distance to his room, “Couldn’t sleep. Sorry to bother ya.”

“Wait,” Healy followed his insomniac friend, crossing the threshold to his bedroom against his better judgment, “I wasn’t joking. Why were you in there?”

“Shut the door. Don’t want to wake Holly up,” he exhaled with an air of indignity.

Closing the door behind him, he prodded March some more, “What was it? Did you need a change of scenery, or…” Shit, that was it. He was watching him sleep, “On second thought, nevermind. You don’t have to divulge your thought process.” He turned to leave when March caught his arm and refused to let go, slowly pulling him by his shirtsleeve into an awkward embrace.

Winding one arm around the other man’s back and letting the other find a resting spot through the hair on Healy’s neck, March settled against his friend’s steady frame.

As soon as Healy had grown accustomed to March’s unexpected display of affection, March had already pulled away, “I’m sorry. _I_ didn’t even know I was going to do that, uh,” he searched for a way to make his actions appear justified but came up short, “Maybe we’ll both wake up in the morning and think this was a fever dream and move on with our lives.”

“March, I know I have no room to talk, but whatever you want to say, just say it already,” the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. Telling March to talk was like begging your mother to give you an hour-long lecture on your life choices: thoroughly unnecessary.

“Okay, okay, where do I start?” He asked hypothetically, resting his back on the wall adjacent to the door and guarding himself with crossed arms.

“How about the whole ‘gay but not gay’ thing. That would help,” Healy suggested.

“That? That’s easy,” March scratched his chin, annoyed by the incoming stubble, “I find women very attractive, but on occasion, I’ve been known to seek comfort of a different persuasion. Hence ‘gay but not gay.’”

“So you’re bisexual?”

“There’s a word for it?”

Healy scowled, “Of course there’s a word for it. Don’t you scan the tabloids? That— what’s his name—The Godfather fella. He admitted to sleeping with men and women a while back.”

“Marlon Brando!” He exclaimed, “Goddammit, if only I were born in the 20s, I could’ve had a chance…”

“Hey, stay focused,” Healy snapped to keep March’s attention, “Besides you should probably be grateful you didn’t grow up during the Depression. What else were you going to say?”

“Oh, right, yeah, the other thing. I love you,” he delivered the admission with such nonchalance that Healy had to replay the exchange three times until the message’s impact found its mark.

“That’s why you were sleeping in the living room…because you love me.”

March shrugged, “Well, you put it that way it sounds stupid, but I—“

“You don’t have to explain. I get it,” he decided to put his heart on the line, frankly once more than he had planned for the rest of his life, “The time you crashed at my place was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in the past 15 years.”

He liked to think he was the type of guy whose opinion of romance resided firmly in “the quickest way to my heart is through my dick” category, but realistically, March melted at that sappy shit, a total sucker for the whole weak at the knees-dry mouth- chest fluttering 9 yards. “Would you want to sleep with me? Not _sleep with_ me, more like sleep _beside_ me. I’m really tired; I don’t think I could have sex right now—“

Healy shut him up with a—now (rather overenthusiastically) reciprocated—kiss that March guessed counted as a yes.

***

**Tuesday, January 1 st, 1980**

It’s funny looking back through this thing. First, I noticed that I say “like” way too much. Must've picked it up from Holly’s friends.

Second, I’m definitely the World’s Worst Detective for getting the hint a year late that Jackson was in love with me.


End file.
